M. Lee - Death In Shanghai

Danilov shouted up at Allen. ‘Can you hear them?’

The sirens of the Red Marias were closer now, their klaxons cutting through the mist, the sound echoing off the walls of the warehouses. ‘You can’t get away. No point in running.’

He was at the bottom of the stairs. He began to climb upwards, getting closer to Allen with every step.

Allen was on the bridge, lurching from side to side. He fired at a car that had stopped next to him. The driver stamped on the accelerator and the car surged away, scattering the rickshaw drivers in front of it.

Danilov was at the top of the stairs. Allen was halfway across the bridge, limping slowly.

‘You can’t get away.’

As he shouted at Allen, a Red Maria pulled across the bridge at the far end, blocking it completely.

Allen stopped, twisting left and right, looking for another route to get away from the shouts of Danilov and the screams of the klaxons.

‘You can’t get away, Allen. It’s finished. You’re finished.’

Allen’s head swivelled around, first staring at Danilov, then down the bridge to the Red Marias that blocked his exit.

There were footsteps behind Danilov. Strachan was there, breathing heavily, his Webley nestled in his fist.

‘About time, Strachan. Good to see you.’

‘Yes, sir, thought you might need a hand.’

‘I need a gun more.’

Strachan handed over his Webley.

Allen had backed himself into the middle of the bridge, against the wrought-iron balustrade, the pistol gripped in his hand.

‘Time to finish this.’ Danilov stepped forward. Allen backed further along the iron railing. He swung round and stared down into the murky waters below, turning back to face Danilov.

‘It’s all over, Mr Allen.’ Danilov stepped forward with his hand outstretched. ‘Give me the gun.’

Allen twisted right and left, terror in his green eyes. The police had decamped from the Red Marias and had formed a line at the end of the bridge, advancing across it, pistols drawn.

Danilov moved closer. ‘Checkmate,’ he said softly.

Allen seemed to calm down, took a deep breath and a sad smile crossed his face. ‘There are still so many of them to be judged, Danilov. So many who need punishment.’

Danilov moved closer, his arm still outstretched. ‘It’s over, Allen. No more Yama. No more trials. No more judgements. No more executions.’

Allen looked at the gun in his hand, smiled and brought it up to his temple.

Strachan shouted ‘No’, and jumped towards Allen, his arms outstretched.

Allen lowered the pistol from his head and pointed it straight at Strachan. There was a flash. The bullet left the barrel in a gush of smoke and flame, zipped straight towards Strachan, pushing through the air, piercing his clothes and into his body.

Strachan stopped for a moment and just stood there. His arm moved up to touch the red spot of blood that had begun to stain his white shirt. Then, his knees just crumpled and he fell sideways, landing on his left side, his arms outstretched.

Danilov raised the Webley and two loud bangs came from it.

Too loud.

Allen’s body jerked as if two bolts of electricity had surged up from the paving of the bridge and shot through his torso, exiting out of the top of his skull. Two red blotches opened in his chest, getting larger and larger. He was thrown back against the iron balustrade and stood there, staring straight at Danilov, as if not believing what had just happened.

Another loud bang from Danilov’s revolver. Allen’s body launched itself up and over the metal railing of the bridge, flying through the air and out of sight.

The smoking revolver lay heavy in Danilov’s hand. He let it fall from his fingers and onto the tarmac.

Where Allen had once stood was just emptiness. He saw again Allen’s eyes as the bullet struck his body. Their sense of surprise, betrayal almost, and then the body falling over the balustrade of the bridge.

He sank to his knees. He was tired. Of life. Of the police. Of everything.

Then he smelt a sweet aroma wafting across his face and nose like a silk scarf.

Sweet potato. The sweet potatoes of Shanghai. How he loved that smell.

A moan came from the body lying next to him.

Strachan. Strachan was alive. His mouth was moving but only a deep moan came from his lips. Danilov crawled beside him, shouting as loud as he could for help from the other policemen.

Strachan was looking at him, his brown eyes strangely calm.

Then they closed.

A constable ran to his side.

‘Get an ambulance.’

The constable hesitated.

‘Now, man, hurry.’

The man’s eyes flicked across to the Red Maria. ‘The radio’s down.’

Danilov picked up Strachan’s body, cradling it in his arms like Mary in a Piet a holding the body of Christ.

A crowd had already gathered to witness the shooting. The constables were running around. A few were checking the river, looking for the tall man’s body. Others were pushing back the crowd. A few others just ran around doing nothing.

Danilov looked down at Strachan. He couldn’t see or hear any breathing. He had to do something quickly or Strachan was finished. He couldn’t wait for an ambulance.

Then he knew.

He started to run across the bridge, through the startled constables and onto the Hongkew side. The crowd scrambled to get out of his way.

He ran as fast as he could, his shoes clanging down the metal steps at the other side, onto the road.

He elbowed his way through the crowd at the end of the bridge, using Strachan’s legs as a battering ram. The crowd was quick to get out of the way. As he ran, his mind raced back to Minsk. He was fifteen years old. The dark walls of a crematorium. His father’s casket vanishing behind the curtains. Him standing there, not crying, not knowing what to do. Just feeling an immense sense of loss. He would never hear his father’s voice again. Never talk to him. Never hold his hand. Then the curtains pulled across and his father was gone.

Forever.

He ran faster. He wasn’t going to stand in front of Strachan’s coffin as it vanished behind a curtain.

He darted across a road, hearing the squeal of brakes behind him. The morgue was up on the left. Dr Fang would know what to do. He must know what to do.

He kicked open the wooden doors, rushing in. Strachan was still not breathing, not moving. ‘Help. Help me.’ His shout echoed against the white-tiled walls.

Dr Fang appeared in his white coat, coming from his lab. ‘What’s all the noise? This…’

‘It’s Strachan, he’s been shot.’

Fang threw away the towel in his hands and ran to Danilov. ‘Here, put him in here.’

Danilov pushed his way into the main morgue. At the front was an empty, white marble slab.

‘Put him here. Call for an ambulance.’

‘It’ll be too late. He’s not breathing.’

Dr Fang examined Strachan. He leant over and put his ear to his mouth. Then he lifted up the eyelids and looked into his eyes.

‘He’s lost a lot of blood.’ Danilov lifted his arms. They were covered in Strachan’s blood. ‘You have to do something.’

‘I’m a pathologist not a doctor. I deal with the dead not the living. He needs an ambulance.’

‘It’s too late. He’ll die if you don’t do something.’

Dr Fang stared at the body of Strachan lying on his marble table. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over Strachan’s body.

‘You’ve got to do something.’

Dr Fang turned his back on the body. ‘Get his collar open. Quickly,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

Danilov struggled with Strachan’s shirt. His hands, covered in blood, seemed to slide over the cloth.

‘Just rip it off.’ Dr Fang was standing there with a scalpel in his hand.